


Confess your sins, darling (your soul is rotting)

by cheerynoir



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Priests, Basically Killian is a priest and Peter is "a bloody demon", Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Crisis of Faith, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerynoir/pseuds/cheerynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all must face temptation. Father Killian Jones must face it more physically than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confess your sins, darling (your soul is rotting)

A storm gathered in the early evening. Rain lashed the windows of the church for hours in an unending torrent. Thunder pealed and lightning cut the sky, but Killian was unbothered. He had retreated to his chambers after the final service – shooed his ragged flock back out into the pouring rain and shut the doors behind him – and took up his Bible, the pages well-thumbed, the cover battered and worn. Even after all these years, the scrawl in black ink in his brother’s hand was more of a comfort than any printed within, God forgive him.

He lost himself in the familiar wash of words. Hours crept on, the sky steadily darkening, the thunder a far-off thing to his ears.

The candles guttered suddenly popping and spitting. Killian paused mid-verse, flicking his gaze from the Bible in his hands to the window, then the clock standing sentential in the corner. Witching hour almost upon them, blackness creeping in flickering shadows. He shut his eyes a moment and breathed deeply, pretending the collar at his throat wasn’t a hair too tight, weighing heavy on his windpipe. He swallowed (and wished for whiskey, for rum, for communion wine and the unshakable faith he once had) and tried to brace himself for what was to come. His faith was a ragged banner, but he drew it around himself like a child clutching a blanket after a nightmare all the same.

When he opened his eyes, Pan was there, lean and sharp; cobwebs and shadow. He grinned. There was blood in that smile, and it chilled Killian to the bone.

God help me, thought Killian.

The demon closed in, light-footed and nearly silent. The smile only grew the more Killian forced himself still. It took everything to keep himself from cringing back into the chair’s upholstery and away from the unwelcome presence.

“It’s been a while, Killian,” the demon said, inclining his head. He stopped in front of Killian’s chair, between his knees, and cocked his head, peering down at him. For a moment, the only sound was the rain, the distant grumble of thunder, the quiet pattering of water dripping from the demon’s clothes and hair to the stone floor and spreading like poison.

“Not nearly long enough,” Killian replied. He licked his lips, his mouth dry. His grip on his Bible tightened, knuckles blanching. He dared not break eye-contact, dared not blink though his eyes itched and burned. The demon’s eyes were green – the green of fresh grass or moss, warm if not for the dark gleam in them – and Killian wondered why the colour still surprised him. Perhaps he thought, years ago, that demons would have black eyes, that they would be as twisted and ugly as their tainted souls. What stood before him wore the skin of a boy. Just a boy with green eyes and a sinful mouth, rain-wet and shivering.

Pity stirred in him, looking at that vessel, but it was easily ignored, easily smothered. Other things, other stirrings, were not so easy to bury. God forgive him.

“You wound me,” the demon laughed. His grin was knives and promises, and a booted foot nudged Killian’s legs further into a sprawl, “Didn’t you miss me?”

“No,” Killian replied, strangled. It was not a lie. It wasn’t.

“A pity,” murmured the beast, pressing close, He put a knee to the chair’s seat, tumbling into Killian’s space like he belonged there, one hand curled at his shoulder for balance. His mouth was very close, his other hand splayed across Killian’s thigh, hot as a brand. “I missed you.”

The touch made his skin crawl. Killian swallowed, but couldn’t stop the way his body tensed, the way his muscle trembled under that too-hot touch. His breathing hitched, wavering, and the demon just smiled. Rain slid down his face, a mockery of tears, dripping from his eyelashes when he batted them.

“Do you want to hear my confession?” he asked, inclining his head.

“I don’t know what a demon would regret enough to confess,” Killian replied, numbness crawling through him, mouth moving without permission or thought. His Bible was nearly forgotten, the ache of his bloodless fingers a distant thing. He wanted rum, then, more intensely than he had in months. He wanted oblivion.

Laughter brushed across his cheek, warm and damp. Too close. Killian swallowed his fingers spasming. That damned hand slid up his thigh, inch by inch, and that smile grew tooth by tooth.

“That’s easy enough to remedy; listen and see.” It was a taunt and a dare and a tease all at once. Killian ground his teeth as anger flared.

“And what good would that do?” he asked. His fixed his gaze of the crucifix that hung on the far wall, the demon no more than a blur at the corner of his eye, demanding attention. He breathed in and out, in and out, temper flaring, and thought of his vows.

He thought of his sins.

Guilt cooled his rage, soothed the pity and the other urges stirring under his skin that were encouraged by the demon’s proximity. Guilt chilled him. Killian shivered.

“To confess, you first must be contrite,” he continued, bold and lecturing in turns. “You don’t have a penitent bone in your body.”

The creature laughed again, shattered glass and a sudden cut. Killlian flinched back. Pan’s hand dragged from his shoulder and down his chest, fingernails scraping talon-sharp against his vestments. He plucked the bible from Killian’s nerveless grip and flung it across the room. Killian bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Those terrible eyes kept him pinned to the spot, kept him silent.

“Would it please you, to have me confess and seek penance for my crimes?” Pan took him in, unblinking, his eyes dark. He licked his lips and Killian damned himself by watching, his mouth dry. “Would it please you to have me grovel for forgiveness on my knees?”

He shifted like he might make good on his threat – because with those eyes, that tone, there was nothing but threats – and Killian had a half-second to be relieved. The boy tumbled into his lap instead, rain-wet and scarcely heavy. Greedy fingers tangled in Killian’s hair, too tight. For a moment he couldn’t breathe and thought, wild with fear, that his collar had constricted completely, that the very physical reminder of his vows and his choices were rising up to strike him down in the name of the God he wasn’t entirely sure existed anymore.

But the moment passed. Pan shifted, caging him in between his slender thighs and arched his back, rubbing against Killian’s lap, fluid and feline. His lips brushed Killian’s ear when he spoke.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned…”

Killian shuddered. It was fitting, how a demon could make his title sound downright filthy. He caught his lip between his teeth and forced his attention back to the crucifix. Guilt churned in him, but it was weakening with every brush of those lips, every murmured sin.

“…it has been three months since my last confession…”

God, had it really? It seemed like longer. But that was an unwelcome thought; dangerous. Killian tried to push it away, to tramp it down. The demon was nothing but a distraction from his true calling, from his faith and his flock. These – these torments were to be endured; they were a test. God was testing him.

His mouth was dry; it was hard to focus. His fingers uncurled, one-by-one, where they’d gripped the armrests of his chair. They tingled as blood rushed back. It burned. He burned.

(If this was a test, God forgive him, he was failing.)

Peter’s hip was small and delicate under his palm, the press of bone a sharp relief to the soft, warm skin that covered it. Killian was close enough he felt the boy’s – the demon’s – breathing hitch at the touch of his hand, but he went on as though he hadn’t:

“…I have lied more times than I can count; I has been wrathful; I have destroyed three marriages and tempted a boy with feathers in his yellow hair to follow me into Hell itself. That makes –a-ah – thirteen, Father, who jump at my command.” The demon laughed, breathy, and scraped his teeth across Killian’s jaw. He went on panting, his hips rolling sharp and sweet, while Killian just tried not to react, “There is a girl who dreams of me in her bed, my fingers, my mouth; I have encouraged her wickedness.”

Killian tasted blood. It took him a moment to feel the pain in his lip and put two and two together. Blood ran hot down his chin and he licked his lips, grimacing. The smell or copper in the air only seemed to excite the demon, who peeled away long enough to locate the source. His heavily-lidded eyes were black save for the faintest sliver of green, his lips red and raw from Killian’s stubble. His shoulders heaved as he breathed; the colour high in his cheeks and his hair curling and damp, he was the picture of debauchery.

(Killian’s pulse throbbed and he _wanted_ ; God forgive him.)

The fingers tightening in his hair was the only warning Killian got. The boy leaned in and Killian jerked his chin up, heart pounding and mouth dry, terrified. The motion bared his throat and the boy licked a line up his neck, from his collar to the underside of his chin, chasing blood. He moaned while he did it, like iron and copper tasted of milk and honey, sweet with promise. He suckled sharp and insistent until Killian’s own breath caught behind his teeth in a low moan.

“Stop,” he said. He couldn’t recognize his own voice. His knuckles were bloodless where he clutched Pan’s hips.

“I’m not finished yet.” It was petulant. And faintly hoarse – the boy could make a psalm sound like an invitation to bed, of that Killian was sure.

And Pan blinked slowly, smiling that vicious, venomous smile. When he leaned in again, Killian found himself frozen. The boy flicked his tongue and Killian startled at the heat of it, the damp press. His chin was clean when the boy leaned back and went on, their eyes locked boldly, blood on his even little teeth:

(Proud and insolent youth: the words came to Killian in a haze. He licked his lips and tasted nothing.)

“And worst of all Father, I have tempted a priest.” He even managed to look contrite about it. Until a stolen, dark-eye glance ruined the illusion. Coyness suited the boy no more than contriteness did, and the attempt left Killian unsettled and shifting slightly in his seat.

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” Killian replied. He managed a dry smile, wavering at the edges. It faltered the moment the boy squirmed pointedly. Killian’s hips jerked, unbidden, and the boy just smirked and ground back. Pleasure skittered across Killian’s nerves, hot and sweet. The touch was maddening and the distance more so, and that was a dangerous thought, too. Killian tried, but he couldn’t keep his secrets off his face.

“Shouldn’t I?” Pan asked, honeyed and smirking. He leaned in again and tangled his fingers more firmly through Killian’s unruly hair. His lips brushed one reddened cheek, “It’s true. Father, I have tempted a priest. He thinks of me at night when he should be lost in prayer-”

“-I don’t-” But it was weak.

“-And he likes the curve of my mouth and the way I talk-”

“-Your words are poisonous. You only know how to lie-” Desperate, now.

“-And he _wants_ , Father, so badly, to sin. I can taste it.”

“Shut up!”

Killian pushed the boy from his lap sharply, fingers tight on his hips. The boy crashed to the rug in a tangle of limbs and rain-slick fabric, his eyes wide, his full lips slack with surprise. It was a good look on him, Killian thought with a vicious sort of glee, already on his feet. His shoulders heaved as he sucked in air like a drowning man, and his shout rang in his ears. His scalp prickled dully, and there were dark strands tangled between Pan’s nimble fingers. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

It was easy to loom over the boy, sprawled as he was. The thought sent a dark thrill through Killian. (Oh how easy it would be – he might be a boy, but he’s a bloody demon, there are chants, there are words to bind and words to punish. That vessel was so fragile-looking, so easy to bruise and break. It would take no effort at all to press him down, to make him pay for every smirk and tease-)

It hit him like a brick to the side of the head; what was he thinking?

Clarity washed over him, icy-sharp, with guilt a half-second behind. Killian caught his breath, struck. He thought he might be ill. Bile burned sickly-sweet at the back of his throat.

But Pan was grinning like he’d never stopped, surprise and outrage wiped away and replaced by a dark sort of pleasure. Fear hit Killian and he took a half-step back as the demon rose gracefully to his feet. He’d seen. Killian’s every secret, every dark thought laid bare. He knew.

_No._

_No, please, no. God forgive me, please-_

“For these and all my sins, I am sorry,” Pan breathed. He wet his lips, rumpled and obscene, and turned to go without another word. There would be no penance for the eternal child, it seemed; Killian couldn’t bring himself to be surprised.

Pan paused in the doorway, one long-fingered hand on the frame. His shadows stretched long and dark behind him, unnaturally so. At that moment, fork of lightning cut the sky a half-second before a tremendous roar of thunder made the windows rattle.

Pan glanced back over his shoulder, still grinning, and Killian could only stare, wide-eyed. Pan, gleaming-eyed and feral, blood on his even white teeth and shadows dancing at his feet: Pan was inhuman and terrible and all the more lovely for it, painted white and silver and black by the storm. Killian couldn’t breathe. Pan chuckled, softly and first and then louder.

It was the laughter that stayed with Killian, long after the storm had raged itself out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> My first foray into the Once fandom, and it's _this_ \- I'm not surprised. We'll see if this goes anywhere. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so if you see any problems, please let me know.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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